It was the summer of 1977. In early July, I flew to Montreal where I hooked up with my college roommate. Our plan was to spend several weeks at her parents' home on Lake Champlain near Plattsburgh, New York, then we would begin the long drive south to Monroe, Louisiana, where we would begin our sophomore year at Northeast Louisiana University in Monroe. We would spend a couple of nights on the road making it to Bolivar, Tennessee, on the third day of our journey south where we would spend two days with my roommate's grandparents. The next leg of our journey would be the drive from Bolivar to my parents' home in Arkansas. We would spend three or four days there then move on down Highway 71 to Shreveport and across Louisiana on Interstate 20 to Monroe.

It was to be a summer of many 'firsts' for me beginning with Montreal. I had never left the boundaries of the United States before. My roommate's parents were firm believers in the cocktail hour before dinner and I developed a definite taste for a gin and tonic with a twist of lime. We explored Vermont and New Hampshire, beautiful states that I had never seen before. We visited a ski resort in Vermont whose name I have forgotten. We drove to Au Sable Forks, a village in New York, and spent some time at Au Sable Chasm. My roommate's parents owned a large sailboat and I went sailing for the first time. I absolutely loved it. We bought live lobsters at a market and cooked them for dinner one evening. We celebrated my birthday on July 29 with a prime rib dinner then toasted marshmallows in the fireplace. I had to wear a coat outside on my birthday. A definite first for a newly turned nineteen year old from Arkansas. We stood in line for hours to get tickets for Star Wars. All in all, it was an amazing vacation filled with so many new experiences that I have probably forgotten more events than I remember.

In fact, I don't remember very much at all about our long drive back to Louisiana. I do, however, remember one thing quite clearly. We happened to be driving through Memphis, Tennessee, on August 16, 1977. I don't have the clarity of memory to tell you exactly what time it was or what my roommate and I were talking about, but I can recall that we heard a bulletin on the radio telling the world that Elvis Presley was dead. We didn't stop. We didn't drive to Graceland. We did drive in silence for some time. An American icon was gone. We were stunned.

If Elvis Presley were still alive, he would be 72 years old today. He was a poor Southern boy from Tupelo, Mississippi, and he became one of the most famous people in the world. When Elvis first entered the Sun recording studio he was asked, "Who do you sound like?" The eighteen year old Elvis replied, "I don't sound like nobody." And, now, even 30 years after his death, people are still trying to sound like Elvis. It doesn't matter if you like his music. It doesn't matter if you respect the humble and generous person that he was. You have to admit that Elvis Presley was a true example of the democratic ideal. He was a revolutionary musician and his life is a legacy to freedom and the unlimited possibilities of the American dream.